


A place was made for all of us

by TaeAelin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Affection, Angst and Humor, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Comfort, Conversations, Delirium, Delusions, Developing Relationship, Empathy, Fever, Hallucinations, Hanni-babble, Hannigram - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Late at Night, M/M, Multiple Selves, Psychopaths In Love, Season 3 Finale, Sickfic, Wendigo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4797875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaeAelin/pseuds/TaeAelin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On route to their final destination, Will is haunted by delirium whilst coming to grips with his morbid affinity for Hannibal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A place was made for all of us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Psychosomatic_Rationality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psychosomatic_Rationality/gifts).



_We left the bridge and traveled on in the star-studded night,_

_toward the word where no one was waiting for us._

_\- Márai Sándor_

Evening had set by the time Hannibal pulled into the gas station.

“Back in a tic.”

The door closed with a muffled thump before Will had processed the statement, lighter than cream, as if they were off on some carefree road trip. He stretched his neck, wiping the side of his mouth that had leaked onto the seatbelt. His forehead felt as if it were bursting at the seams, and he clicked open the glove, holding out for a stash of Advil but finding only a half-eaten sandwich. The last supper of a dead man. He stared at it too long, before slamming the compartment closed. Fumbling with the cup-holders instead, he plucked a crumpled water bottle from the driver-side, hoping it belonged to Hannibal as he took a gulp. The liquid was plastic, slightly stale. Probably not then.

“Your first hunting trip.”

He snapped his head around, too fast for his stiffened muscles.

Abigail smiled from the back seat, her eyes wide and sad over the featherline hollows below. Will pinched the bridge of his nose, letting the pressure curve toward his temples, not quite far enough.

“I’ve been hunting many times. I’ve been hunting forever.”

“But not like this.” She ran her palm over the window, smudging away the condensation until the redwoods became visible. “Not like it was meant to be.”

Will peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Me and Hannibal?”

She tugged the sleeves of her windbreaker down over her hands. It was cold where she was. “No. I mean, you've stopped fishing.”

He twitched, mumbling through some old wound. “I’m not sure I ever did teach you how to fish.”

“I’m not sure you ever needed to.”

Will pulled the remains of a tissue from his pocket. His lower lip tasted achingly metallic, his throat dry as ash. “I chose the bait, and now I’m waiting for the bite.”

Abigail shuffled precariously forward on the cracked leather. “Hannibal knows it’s a trap. The Dragon knows it’s a trap.”

Delicate and beseeching, her exhale left no smoke on the air. “But they’re both coming. They’re both here. Not because they are lured, but because they like to be stalked. They like your attention. They _want_ to be hunted.”

Will scuffed his fingers through his hair, course from dried sweat. “And am I now the hunter?”

A shadow rippled through the glass and her smile faltered, caught in the net.

“Only if you can kill.”

Hannibal swung back the door, depositing himself neatly into the cab. He balanced a cardboard tray in one hand, two coffees-to-go nestled within.

"I apologise for the quality, but I thought you could use something."

Will breathed out an empty laugh, turning into the passenger-side door as it turned to a fit of coughing. Hannibal waited, still holding the drinks in exactly the same position by the time he looked back. Will reached over, the styrofoam cup unsteady in his grip.

"And that's before I've even tried it yet. Thanks."

"You're welcome. And there is this, when you're ready." Hannibal removed the truckstop-issue flannel tucked beneath his arm, clinching the plastic tag with his teeth and breaking it in two.

Will glanced at his own shirt in dismay, grimacing as he saw the deep red stains at the cuffs. He wasn't sure if he remembered mopping splattered blood from the inside of the car windows, or if he intuited the visual because Hannibal had done so. The evidence seemed to suggest he'd at least taken part. But with Hannibal, evidence was hardly a certainty.

He stripped off the contaminated layer while Hannibal hooked the key in the ignition, giving the engine a head start before shifting gears.

"I see you managed to find something too." Will nodded to Hannibal's own crisp pinstripe shirt. How he came by it in a store where deer jerky was the going fare, Will could only guess.

"Yes, much more suitable for the occasion. For meeting our friend."

The car rolled slowly back to the lightless highway, the waypoint halogens drowned in the rearview mirror. Hannibal let his hand linger over the air vents at the centre of the dash. Satisfied, he directed both toward Will, who was more grateful for the flow of warmth than he preferred to let on. He sipped the black liquid through the opening in the lid, wincing, then making a decent effort to swallow on seeing Hannibal's somewhat guilty frown.

"I did warn you-"

"It's fine, I just-" Will gave an unfortunate smirk, the coffee in respect to the gravity of the situation getting the better of him. "-You could have at least put sugar in it?"

The edge of Hannibal's mouth twitched, though he declined to humour the comment with a glance.

"I said it would be less than the usual standard, I didn’t say I would be purposefully making it so."

Will gave a damp sniff, the astringent vapour doing more for his congestion than he might have wished. "By the time I get through this, even the boxed wine in the trunk might seem like a vintage."

This time Hannibal did allow himself a fleeting look, followed by an indiscernible raise of his eyebrow. “There is boxed wine in the trunk?”

“And shotguns. And bowling shoes, apparently.”

“Well. We have everything we need for a good time, then.”

Will chuckled, slightly less woozy. It took him a moment to realise he was down to the gritty dregs of the instant. It didn’t seem like much time had passed in between.

“Sorry. Even I’m finding my company pretty poor.”

Hannibal’s grip softened on the wheel, a crease at the corners his eyes.

“Compared to that of my recent wardens, our conversation is in all respects riveting, I assure you.”

He managed to say it in a way that somehow sounded generous.

“And of course, I have looked forward to your company for some time, Will.”

Will turned to the filmy window, the curdling dark easier to bear than the rawness of the tone, some graze left unlicked. He sniffed again, wishing he had thought to ask for another pack of tissues while he had the chance. Jamming the empty cup behind the door-handle, he cupped both hands firmly over his nose and mouth, sneezing violently enough to thrust his forehead down to his knees.

“ _Salute_. Are you alright?”

Recoiling, Will groped for the soiled shirt he had cached beneath the seat. The exertion had left his ears popping, his throat torn.

“You look a bit peaky, Will, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Will gave a choked laugh, turning away to save Hannibal the sight of him blowing his nose into the shirt, if not the viscous sound.

“I think I’ve felt better. But I know I’ve felt a lot worse.”

The last part came out sorely unfiltered. Hannibal kept his gaze focused mildly on the road.

"You should try to get some more sleep, it's not much further anyhow. And knowing what's waiting for us, you might need it."

Will wrapped the shirt into a ball, scrunching the bloodstains well into the middle before wedging the makeshift pillow against the window. The hum of the glass was surprisingly soothing where it eased against his scalp, and he kept his head in place for at least a minute, before twisting painfully upright.

Hannibal pressed his mouth to a straight line, perhaps in concern. "You could make use of my jacket too? More comfortable, perhaps."

He flicked a glance toward the rear seats, empty except for a carefully folded blazer.

Will gave a regretful frown, an ounce of appreciation somehow creeping alongside the dread.

"Knowing what's waiting for us" he wrenched the air conditioning vents closed, the heat suddenly suffocating. "I think I would be better to stay awake."

Hannibal nodded, curt and concise, betraying nothing. But within himself, Will felt pleased. Which, he had learned to realise, meant Hannibal did too.

 

-

 

The house was as alluring as it was unkind, all angles and corners and knife edges. It was hard to believe anyone had ever navigated the cliffside at all, let alone had the guile to mould such modernity on its cusp. The pines had long retaken the backroads, and they'd had to stop several times to drag fallen logs from their path. He wouldn't have minded, were it not for the absolute certainty that they were being watched.

Will waited until Hannibal had poured two glasses of Sassicaia, then stirred toward the master ensuite. The deep inground spa filled quickly as he sipped. Voluptuous blackcurrent, silky tannins. Best served with a saddle of lamb, but he’d make do with rarer company.

“You know, fever was once employed as a treatment for psychosis. Most often achieved through an injection of malaria-tainted blood, in fact.”

Will opened his eyes, steam from the bathwater momentarily clogging his vision.

“A risky therapy, as you can imagine, but these days, what isn’t?”

“Hello, Dr. Gideon.”

Abel gave a leisurely tip of his own glass in greeting, looking pleasantly surprised at the first taste. “Tuscan, is it? _Tenuta San Guido_. Must be a special occasion then.”

Will gave a husky cough, then smiled weakly in accord. “These days, what isn’t?”

Abel gave a knowing nod, reclining against the smooth marble of the wall. He looked oddly dignified in his white jumpsuit, more content as an uninvited guest than any other.

“The table’s all set then, just those niggling finishing touches you’re waiting on.” He crossed a leg over the other, benignly amused. “The devil in the details.”

Will ducked his face into the water, the humidified salts prickling at his eyes. “You could join us, though the garnish might be a little rich for your palate.”

The surgeon beamed, delighted with the insinuation. Stooping down, he knelt at the mouth of the bath, near level with Will’s stare.

“It’s not the garnish I’m concerned with.” He raised his Bordeaux, the broad bowl chipping against Will’s. “It’s what you boys are cooking up for dessert.”

Will blinked, the stem and the wine slowly slipping through his fingers. Grabbing with his left hand too late, the crystal plunged against the tiles, splitting into a miasma of reflective shards in a Rorschach of cold red.

He sat bolt upright, his breath coming in shallow gasps as Hannibal stepped into the room, stiffened with unease. Striding over, he rolled up a sleeve to dip his hand in the bath, eyebrows pulled tight at the seams.

“Will, this water is freezing. I don’t think it would be good for you to sit here much longer.”

“No.” He answered blankly, trying to put the pieces of Hannibal’s face back together.

Less than assuaged by this response, Hannibal unfurled a thick towel from the sideboard, wrapping it snugly around Will’s torso. Skirting around the fractured remnants, Will allowed himself to be led to the electric fireplace. He stood wetly on the high-pile rug as Hannibal left to retrieve some spare clothes, numbed by the deadened stars winking through the wall-to-wall windows. The simulated flames licked neatly within the limestone setting.

Padding quietly back into the space, Hannibal placed the white collared shirt and trousers on the ottoman, turning politely aside whilst Will shivered into them. The change of temperature had thinned the fog at the back of his sinus, and he sniffed against his fist, quelling the needling beneath the bridge of his nose. Despite the void of Hannibal’s stare, he hazarded a shred of commiseration ran at the underbelly. And curiosity. There was always that, too.

“Do you want to take a seat?” Hannibal made a gentle movement to the ottoman, observing Will’s lightheaded stance before he did.

Grudgingly, Will eased himself onto the immaculate leather, trying to keep his nose from running whilst resting his forehead in both palms.

Taking up the discarded towel, Hannibal approached, soft enough that it was near unnerving to find him settled at his side. Carefully spreading the cotton between both hands, he drew it over Will’s scalp, pulling the moisture from his hair before it soaked into his collar. It was an uncannily pleasant sensation, firm and meticulous. Will arched his spine as Hannibal folded the towel to a drier section and repeated the action, the tension leeching from his temples with each stroke. He felt he could almost sleep without dreaming if he closed his eyes, as rare and dangerous a gift as all that stemmed from Hannibal’s intent. He jerked himself back to alertness, scrounging for anything that might break the irrational sense of contentment he had when they were alone.

“Was it as vast as you imagined, your _Ars Memoriae?_ Now that you’re free, could you stand to live there again?”

Hannibal curled his upper lip, a cruel mockery of a smile, yet clearly sated by the interest.

“In some ways, I am still there. I am always at home in my Memory Palace, just as I am, in some part, in yours.” Seeing Will wasn’t quite disposed to wrangle the statement to something digestible, he tamed his tone. “It was larger than even I could have perceived. And emptier.”

Will gave a muted hum of acknowledgement. “You didn’t answer the last part.”

“The last part was hardly a question.” Hannibal mused, not unkindly. Seeing Will trembling under a fresh web of sweat, he stood up. “You should eat something.”

Feeling acutely colder without the presence at his shoulder, Will bridled his discomfort to a hazy smirk. “I don’t think I have the stomach for smoked _foie gras_ or _terrine en croute_ right now.”

“And I much less have the ingredients for either.” Hannibal did not, to Will’s amusement, seem entirely pleased with himself, whether such stock were required or not. “I’m afraid the best I can offer is an omelet. Or a frittata, if you can stand to wait.”

“I’m allergic to eggs.”

Hannibal gave him the snatch of a glare. Will swallowed a rueful grin.

“Sorry. That would be a lot funnier if we’d never shared a breakfast.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Hannibal paused on his exit as Will ducked into his sleeve to clear his throat, waving the opposite arm to indicate he was perfectly fine.

“Will, have you considered taking something to bring this down?”

“I’d rather not.” Eyes watering, Will scrambled for the remainder of his voice. “Certain medicines and I… have a history.”

It was a poor choice of words, but more tactful than indicating he wasn’t ready to ingest any more of Hannibal’s treatments, however seemingly innocuous. If nothing else, Hannibal appreciated the attempted courtesy, and gave a nod of concurrence before heading into the kitchen.

Will let his muscles slacken, sinking his back against the ottoman, the spines of the chandelier above gutting the whole of his vision. The light pooled into the glass particles, milky, tepid fragments that decayed as soon as the shadow climbed above him.

Will tried to lurch upright, the grip of her thighs at his hips viciously real, her nails digging into his collarbone as she pushed him back down. He tried to seize on a question before his breath left him entirely, but she narrowed, sucking out his resolve.

“I’ll do the asking, Will.”

He stilled, terrified and fascinated. He had seen Alana back in Wolf Trap less than a day ago. Or was it more? He hadn’t been separated from Hannibal since then, it was impossible. She had been leaving, never mentioning where she was going. She had a security detail. But more than that, he admitted to himself, her weight bearing down on him. More of a certainly than all the precautions, the time, and the proximity. The only thing he could be sure of. _I never would have killed you_.

“Do you see where this will lead, your love for this monster?”

Will felt his eyes clouding, the spattered ceiling burning at his retinas. “You loved him too, once.”

“I loved a reflection, once. A reflection of the man I chose to see. But I’m speaking of the Dragon.”

The red of her lips bled into the saccharine filter, the mask she’d never worn when he had known her. Really known her, when he had still been a man too.

“The Dragon is an abomination. I’m here to kill him, same as Hannibal.”

“You could just as easily imprison him. But no. You don’t do that to the things you love, Will. Unless you know you’ll be back to save them.”

Will dug his elbows against the goatskin, the flesh at his neck hot and tacky. “Would you have let me save you, Alana?”

She shook her head, punctured by some secret he’d never know. “When you kill him” she leaned down close, her whisper nipping against his ear. “There won’t be three monsters anymore- just one.”

Will felt his pulse throbbing beneath his ribcage, his arteries straining with the glut of adrenaline.

“Which one?”

“Just you and I” Hannibal answered, wiping a hand at his apron as he balanced two plates easily on the other.

Will sat up, the rush and relief a welcome fallout, his breath shuddering as he fought to compose himself. Setting the dishes on the coffee table, Hannibal knelt in front of him, skipping the invitation.

“You know what the Dragon is as much as I do, Will. If not better. We’re not here to kill him. But you already knew that.”

Will was shaking in earnest now. He had never felt more lucid, more alive. “We’re here to meld with him- to absorb him. Together.”

He felt Hannibal’s arms close around his shoulders, steadying or crushing him he couldn’t tell.

Just one.

-


End file.
